


Nothing Without You

by ChildofDavros



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Consensual, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Hurt, Oral Sex, PTSD Sherlock, Psychological Torture, Rejection, Reunions, Torture, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChildofDavros/pseuds/ChildofDavros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been dead for two years and John's life fell apart. When Sherlock returns will they be able to fix each other or will they tear each other apart?</p>
<p>Really bad summary but hey-ho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He kept on falling. Nothing John could do or say would stop him from falling. He was always to late. The sickening crack of his head against the pavement, the glassed over eyes, his blood trickling down his face. Blood John couldn’t put back into him. No matter how fast he ran or what he shouted, each time Sherlock would end up hitting the pavement. Sherlock would end up dead because John was too stupid, to slow, to stop him. To save him. 

“Why didn’t you save me, John”, That’s all he says, every night, every time he closes his eyes, Sherlock asks him that same question.

“Im sorry Sherlock, I’m so sorry”. But it’s not good enough. Sherlock falls and all John can do is scream.

 

///////////////////

 

When he wakes it is with a wet face and a sore throat. He sighs at the thought that he must of been screaming again. When the screaming had first started Mrs Hudson used to come upstairs and mother John till he sent her on her way. But even she can’t bear it any more, she doesn’t want to hear the screams and be reminded of that awful day. With a grunt John pulls himself out of bed and checks the time. 5:17. Better than usual, most days he wakes well before sunrise. Apart from the days he swallows enough sleeping pills to knock him out for at least 24 hours. Those are the days when Sherlock wont leave him alone. When all John wants to do is put a gun in his mouth and follow Sherlock wherever he went. Because thats what John does, he follows Sherlock into whatever danger or situation because despite his claims of being a sociopath Sherlock always made sure John was okay. But John isn’t okay. Not anymore. 

Trying to have something resembling a normal day he forces himself to go downstairs and eat breakfast. He does’t know why he bothers, it’s not like he has a job to get to. Not for a long time. Sarah had said he was a risk to the patients and she wasn’t willing to endanger lives because John couldn’t get over his grief. What does she know about grief? John knows everything about grief. The anger, the pain, the crying, the shouting, the depression and the finality of realising that you are nothing without that person. Because that is what he realised. Without Sherlock he is just a washed up solider with a limp and a bad case of PTSD. 

At precisely 8:00 there was a confident knock on the door and Mycroft Holmes walked into 221B. John didn’t even bother to look up. It was a Wednesday which meant that Mycroft would come and sit in the flat from eight in the morning till John went to bed. When it had first began John refused Mycroft entry into the flat, he didn’t want him in Sherlock’s space. Not the man who had sold out his best friend. But once John realised that Mycroft would sit there whether John let him in or not he granted the man access. He thought after a few weeks Mycroft would get bored but the relentless politician kept up the weekly visits and showed no sign of stopping. Most times they would ignore each other, John would get on with his day and Mycroft would sit on his laptop doing whatever it is he does. Whilst he had hated these visits at first he now enjoyed them. He had felt more at peace with the older Holmes once he had explained why he did what he did and John had understood how sorry and guilty the man felt. John hadn’t quite forgiven Mycroft but he understood his logic, he hadn’t meant any harm. And John knew that Mycroft had been there in his lowest moments. When he had come back from the surgery after being fired and smashed every plate in the flat Mycroft had turned up and taken him to bed. Whilst John cried Mycroft sat in a chair and told stories of his and Sherlock’s childhood until John fell asleep. These where stories he told himself when he felt himself slipping further. He imagined a tiny Sherlock with wild raven curls pretending to be a pirate and chasing Mycroft with a wooden sword. He also knew that Mycroft was the one paying his rent. He only found this out when he had slipped his usual envelope full of money under Mrs Hudson’s door only for it to be returned with a post it note saying he must of got a bit confused as he had already paid the rent for the remainder of the year. So despite the tension and the remorse between the two men, the weekly visits became something of a respite from their realities. For John is was a chance to come out of his depression and move a step closer to recovering. And for Mycroft it was a chance to remember his brother. Because despite his nickname of the ‘iceman’ Mycroft had loved his brother dearly and seeing him being disgraced hurt him. But what hurt him more was seeing John Watson destroy himself and not being able to tell him the truth. To tell him that Sherlock was in fact alive and fighting to get back to John. But he couldn’t say anything without putting both Sherlock and John into danger. 

That Wednesday went just like the other Wednesday’s. John tried not to think of Sherlock and managed it for 4 hours straight. His best record yet. And Mycroft sat quietly apart from the usual offer of getting John therapy or a new flat or whatever else he thought may help John. But as usual John refused all offers and said he was fine. They both ignored this blatant lie, neither of them wanting to rock the boat. John knew that there was a sort of rota that meant at least one person looked in on him everyday, just to make sure that the good doctor in fact hadn’t put a gun in his mouth and painted the walls with his brains. He had even taken the time to work out who was appointed to each day. After 2 years he knew by memory that Lestrade would visit him monday and thursday, Mrs Hudson would be there tuesday and saturday, Mycroft on Wednesday, Molly would come on friday and any variation of the four would pop in on sunday. But Mycroft was the only one who stayed the whole day. The rest would pop in for the cursory cup of tea, make sure he was in fact still alive and not planning on blowing his brains out, then return to their respective lives. John was grateful for these visits, when he was left alone for too long things got bad. He would take to Sherlocks bed to sleep, only waking to have a quick pee and pop a few more sleeping pills. He liked falling asleep surrounded by Sherlock’s sheets. At first he did it because it smelt like him but two years on the only thing it smelt of was John, but he persisted because it was a comfort he allowed himself to indulge in. 

At 10:49 John said goodnight to Mycroft, whispered a goodnight into Sherlock’s room, as he did every night, and went to bed. It may be a slow recovery but John knew he was recovering. Each day he could spend longer not thinking about Sherlock, each week he had new motivation to do the mundane tasks and bit by bit he was getting his life back together. He still dreamt, he still cried but he knew that one day he would be okay, that one day the screaming would stop. 

///////////////////////

Sherlock sat in the cold warehouse and waited for death. He knew it had to be close. On top of the -10 degree temperature his injuries were colossal and there was no way he could get help. With his last few minutes he calculated his injuries. He knew for certain that he had at least a broken arm, two broken ribs, a punctured lung, a fractured ankle, severe concussion, multiple cuts that needed stitches, bruised kidneys and onsetting hypothermia and pneumonia. The torture he had been subjected to in the last few weeks was so gruesome it would turn the stomach of the strongest man. He had been electrocuted, whipped, water boarded, suffocated, beaten with fists, clubs, planks of wood, he had been pulled back from the brink of death more times then he could remember. And what was the end result? A dead Sebastian Moran lying across from him as he died in Moscow. But Sherlock knew this was okay, this was good because it meant John was safe. John wouldn’t have to die for Sherlock. ‘No one should have to do die for me’ he thought ‘Especially not John’. As Sherlock led on that stone floor the only thing he wished for was John. He wished he could see John one more time, explain to him that he didn’t have to grieve, that he had died happy with the thought that John was safe. That John was the last though on his mind. Thinking only of John, Sherlock slipped from consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short Chapter. 
> 
> ‘He doesn’t want you, why would he want a disgusting freak like you?’  
> ‘He will of moved on, nobody would wait about for you’  
> ‘You’re pathetic, pining over a man who couldn’t care less if you were dead or alive’  
> ‘Why would John want to see you? John is good, you are bad. Bad, bad, bad. He’d be better of if you really were dead’

Sherlock awoke to a bright light and soft beeping in his ear. Everything hurt, his head screamed with pain and his brain felt like it had melted into his skull. ‘No this isn’t right, I’m supposed to be dead. I’m supposed to be dead in Moscow’ was all that Sherlock could think. 

“Yes, you are supposed to be dead, but isn’t it lucky that I found you before you could actually die brother dear”

Sherlock inwardly groaned at the sound of his brothers voice. While he was grateful he wasn’t dead but this would just be another thing his brother could use against him, another favour Sherlock had to repay. Sherlock groaned with the effort of opening his eyes and forced himself to look at Mycroft. Dressed impeccably the older Holmes returned his brothers icy stare with one of worry and care. This look from Mycroft put Sherlock more on edge than his pain or the fact that he nearly died. Mycroft wasn’t supposed to care, he was the Iceman. He didn’t care about Sherlock, he wasn’t supposed to be worried. He was supposed to be disappointed, angry, smug and all the other disgusting things he felt towards Sherlock.

“Of course I care Sherlock. You might be an brat and a drain on this country’s expenses but you’re my baby brother. I won’t ever let you fall so far that I can’t catch you.”

Mycroft’s saw Sherlock flinch when he mentioned falling and he instantly regretted his choice of words. But he meant what he had said, he would always save Sherlock. At least he would always try, but Sherlock always managed to get himself into trouble and Mycroft knew one day Sherlock may go too far. Sherlock saw this thought process go through Mycroft’s head and wondered how they had become so distant. A feeling of guilt flooded through his body as he tried to remember the last time they had talked. Properly talked, not just the trading of insults that made up their usual conversations. He realised that he missed his brother. He missed the brother that picked him up from school after he had been beaten up and stitched up his injuries before his father could ask questions. The brother that told their father that they were his cigarettes and took the consequential beating. The brother that held him through every withdrawal until he was okay. With these thoughts circling his mind Sherlock finally met his breaking point and let a whimper escape from behind his teeth.

Mycroft’s heart broke as he heard his brother’s whimpers. Moving over to Sherlock’s bed, he climbed next to his brother and allowed the younger Holmes to sob into his chest. Sliding his fingers into the wild, raven curls he ran his fingers through his hair until Sherlocks sobs subsided and the man fell asleep on Mycroft’s chest. The two brothers sat on the cold hospital bed till the morning, both comforted by the others presence.

When Sherlock awoke the next morning it was to the smell of his brother’s cologne and the security of being cradled by Mycroft. Despite his feeling of security in his brother’s arms, Sherlock soon grew stiff by the physical contact and sidled away. Feeling his brother body stiffen, Mycroft slipped of the bed and left the hospital room with a small nod and a feeling of contentment he hadn’t felt since he was a child. Neither brother felt awkward from the encounter and both knew that their relationship was changed forever/

///////////////////////

 

After 8 days in hospital Sherlock was aching to get out. The doctors, just as aching for him to leave, warned him that he was barely recovered and that he should be careful. Collecting up his few belongings, Sherlock left the hospital and slid himself into a cab. 

“221B Baker Street” he sighed at the cab driver, feeling more tired than when he had entered hospital. He had calculated 4 different responses he could receive when he first saw John. Response number three that included John hugging the detective and welcoming him back with little anger was Sherlock favourite but he knew there was only a 6% chance of this happening. It was much more likely that he would either be punched in the face or banished from Baker Street, told never to return. Butterflies filled Sherlock stomach as the cab pulled up in front of the flat. Two years he had wanted nothing more than to see John, now with that about to happen all he wanted to do was to run away. The thoughts that had plagued his mind for tow years suddenly sprung up and hit him like a train.

‘He doesn’t want you, why would he want a disgusting freak like you?’  
‘He will of moved on, nobody would wait about for you’  
‘You’re pathetic, pining over a man who couldn’t care less if you were dead or alive’  
‘Why would John want to see you? John is good, you are bad. Bad, bad, bad. He’d be better of if you really were dead’

He hated these thoughts but deep down he believed them without question. He was pathetic, he was a freak and John would be better of without him. Despite believing that John truly would be better without him, Sherlock mustered all the courage he could possibly have left in him and knocked on the door of 221B. There was nothing more he could do but wait for John. Wait for John to decide his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would like to Beta this tell me please :) Comments are alway great.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He regretted knocking almost as soon as he did it. How could he of been so stupid as to think John would want to see him. He should just leave before anyone can open the door. But however much his mind was screaming at him to leave his legs were frozen in place, not moving an inch. His heart threatened to rip his chest apart as he heard footsteps come down the stairs. The door swung open and Sherlock stopped breathing.

John was in high spirits that morning. The previous night he had decided to go to the pub and by chance a very pretty woman had taken an interest in the ex - solider. John hadn’t had a date since before Sherlock had gone and had only gone to the pub after Greg had whined at him to get out of the flat and ‘have some fun’. Well John hadn’t really wanted any fun so picked the quietest pub he could of possibly found in the middle of bustling London. The girl, whose name was Mary, had approached him at the bar and asked to sit with him. Apparently she had been stood up by some date and instead of going home decided to have a drink with the sad man. John had laughed at this, not malicious laughter but a real laugh because she had described him so perfectly. The sad man. For the first time in two years John took an interest in a woman. Mary was beautiful in an understated way. She was shorter than John with warm blond hair that flowed down her back. Her eyes were a soft brown that dripped with compassion and care, John could find no ice in those eyes. Nothing about her was over the top or crying out for attention. She was perfect. Mary and John talked for hours until the bartender had told them they had to go so he could lock up. John had found out that Mary was a primary school teacher and originally came from Edinburgh. Mary found out that John’s favourite colour was blue and had always wanted a dog. He didn’t talk about Sherlock, he didn’t even think of Sherlock. All that filled his mind was Mary’s soft words and her big, brown eyes. When they were kicked out of the pub they exchanged numbers and promised to be in touch, neither of them wanting the other to be just another stranger in a pub. 

By the morning after, John and Mary had already traded over 30 texts and organised a date for the next week. John felt good. He felt as if finally he could start living again and maybe he could get over Sherlock. In the shower he had even allowed himself to masturbate. Something he hadn’t had the motivation to do for a long time. With thoughts of Mary and her long blonde hair as she rode John, screaming his name, John furiously rubbed himself until he came. Feeling like liquid he left the shower and got dressed. Not a moment after he had pulled on his second sock a knock came from the door. Knowing that Mrs Hudson wasn’t in John walked down the stairs and pulled open the door.

////////////////////

He regretted knocking almost as soon as he did it. How could he of been so stupid as to think John would want to see him. He should just leave before anyone can open the door. But however much his mind was screaming at him to leave his legs were frozen in place, not moving an inch. His heart threatened to rip his chest apart as he heard footsteps come down the stairs. The door swung open and Sherlock stopped breathing.

John.

It was really him. His John. With his soft, warm jumper and slightly shaggy hair. Sherlock could do nothing but stare. He couldn’t believe that he had finally made it home. Because Sherlock saw home as anywhere that John was. A sewer could be his home as long as he had his trusty blogger. Sherlock looked over John and saw that the doctor had lost 3 stone since he had last seen him. He looked tired and weary but something sparked in his eyes. He had had a date last night. A good date. Whoever John had seen last night had made him happy and Sherlock saw that happiness dissipate as John looked at him. Sherlock felt as though his heart had imploded. John had been happy and Sherlock had ruined it. Again. He could do nothing right. He was stupid and selfish and didn’t deserve John. Sherlock wished he couldn’t deduce Johns love life and wished he couldn’t see his obvious suffering. He wished he had never come back.

 

///////////////

As John opened the door his heart stop. This couldn’t be happening. Sherlock Holmes was standing on his door. His best friend. His dead best friend. A multitude of feeling washed through John’s body, he didn’t know how to react. He wanted to hug the man, to punch him, to scream at him, to push him away and to pull him in. The most resounding feeling he felt was to punch him. How could he of put John through so much? How could he of lied to John? Letting him believe he was dead. But John didn’t punch him. He could see how weak the other man was. It was obvious that Sherlock had been in hospital but it was also obvious that he hadn’t stayed long enough to recover fully. The doctor in John took over and pushed the door back further, an obvious invitation to come in. 

“Well, you better come in then” - his voice expressionless and void. He had to be doctor first, then he could be emotional. He couldn’t let his emotion stop him from fulfilling his duty.

As Sherlock walked through the door, he paused and glanced at John. The solider looked blank. Nothing flickered across his face and this terrified Sherlock. He would of preferred it if John had punched him, or shouted at him. Anything that wasn’t this blank silence. This nothingness. Heading up the stairs he ignored his need to touch John, to remind himself that this was real. He opened the door to 221B and entered his old home. Looking round his mind subconsciously noted all the changes, over whelming him with new information at an incredible pace. This much information at that speed cause Sherlock physical pain and without realising let out a low whimper. 

Hearing Sherlock whimper was not something he thought he would ever hear. 

“What’s the matter” - He tried to keep the worry out of his voice. Not letting his words stumble. He needed to keep his emotion at bay, keep himself as ‘Doctor John’ or he would do something stupid.

“You’ve changed things” Sherlock replied, barely audible. 

Realising Sherlock was not in any actual pain John relaxed a little. But his anger multiplied. Had Sherlock expected John to keep the flat exactly the same? As some sort of museum to the great Sherlock Holmes. 

“Yes, well I didn’t exactly expect you to come home, did I?” John snapped at Sherlock, allowing a little of his anger slip through his barriers. 

Sherlock winced at John’s words. He hadn’t meant to cause more hurt but John had asked and Sherlock had answered. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. And that was the biggest problem. Sherlock didn’t understand John anymore, didn’t know what to say and what not to say. He was stupid for not being able to deduce the best plan. Feeling inferior Sherlock decided the best plan was to stay as quiet as possible therefore allowing John to decide on any conversation. That was if he even wanted to talk. 

“Sit on the table. I want to take a look at your injuries” John told this to Sherlock without even looking at the man. It wasn’t just his anger that threatened to erupt, the overwhelming hurt that felt like it was about to suffocate him was bubbling near the top. He wanted to know why Sherlock hadn’t told him, why Sherlock had made him suffer for 2 years. He wanted to cry. But he didn’t let himself. He had to check over Sherlock, the man looked as if he was about to drop. Standing in front of Sherlock he told the man to take of his shirt. As Sherlock chest slowly came into view Johns heart ripped itself into tiny pieces. There were so many scars, some very old and healed other only just been stitched up. He could see the result of obvious torture, burn marks, some from fire and some that looked like they came from electricity. He saw a few stitched up cuts that meant Sherlock had had to of had surgery. One over his lungs the other over his kidneys. Someone had to of cut him open just to put him right. Over all these scars where fading bruises, covering the entire of his abdomen. Not being able to hold it in any more John let out a tear and spoke softly to the man in front of him.

“Oh Sherlock, what happened to you?”.  
////////////////////////

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter here. I know I don't really have a schedule to my updates I kind of just write when I get a spare minute and then update instantly. I don't really do the whole 'Update ever tuesday' kind of thing. 
> 
> Please give me feedback. Not really sure what I'm doing here :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It took everything in Sherlock to keep himself still when all he wanted to do was to pull away. He was a monster. Deformed, defiled in some of the worst ways know to man. He didn’t want John to see him like this."

Sherlock looked up at John, surprised to hear the quiver in the doctor’s words. John was angry at him, that was for certain, he was angrier than Sherlock could ever of imagined. It was a cold anger that reached from John into Sherlock’s heart, killing any thoughts that John may want him back. But that tiny quiver, those 6 softly spoken words ignited a tiny spark of hope inside him. Sherlock looked closer at John and watched as silent tears fell down the other man’s face. He said nothing as John reached out and gently traced his fingertips over his torso. Following the dips and rises of each one of his scars.

It took everything in Sherlock to keep himself still when all he wanted to do was to pull away. He was a monster. Deformed, defiled in some of the worst ways know to man. He didn’t want John to see him like this.

Disgusting. Bad. Ugly. Useless. Bad. Worthless. Monster. Bad.Bad.Bad.Bad.Bad.

Sherlock couldn’t stop the thoughts running through his head, attacking him at every turn. 

“Bad. Bad. Bad. I’m so sorry. Bad. I didn’t want to. Bad Sherlock. I’m a monster John. I’m sorry. I’m sorry” Sherlock started muttering under his breath. He couldn’t stop, it was as if everything in his head was pouring out. He grabbed hold of his closely cropped curls and pulled, keeping up his litany of “Bad Sherlock. Bad. Bad. Bad. I’m so sorry John. Im so sorry” He pulled as if he could pull his diseased mind right out of his head and stop this onslaught.

Seeing Sherlock suddenly double over as he touched him John recoiled. He thought he had hurt him, touched an open wound or a sensitive scar but he soon forgot about that as he saw the man in front of him suddenly start scolding himself. Hearing Sherlock mutter “Bad Sherlock. I’m a monster John” John suddenly felt his heart drop out of his chest. “Sherlock. Sherlock please look at me”. But instead the detective grabbed hold of his curls and pulled with all his might. “Sherlock please stop, you’re hurting yourself. Please Sherlock. Look at me” John pleaded. He didn’t know what to do. The Sherlock he knew was haughty and rude and icy. Not this desperate, murmuring half insane man that sat before him. He grabbed Sherlocks hands and pulled them away. He couldn’t let the man pull out his own hair in a whatever that just was. 

Sherlock looked up when he felt his hand being dragged away from his head. Didn’t whoever was doing that realise that he had to get these thoughts out of his head or they were going to kill him. He couldn’t think when they repeated themselves over and over and over like they did. “Please” he whimpered and John instantly enveloped him in his arms and held him to his chest. 

“Oh Sherlock. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed you so much. How could you do that to me? I thought you were dead. Dead. Don’t ever go again. You have to promise not to leave me again. I don’t think I could handle it. I’m so sorry for what’s happened to you. I don’t even know what’s happened but I’m sorry. But I’m so angry at you. I want to hurt you Sherlock, I want to hurt you really bad and it’s scaring me. I asked for one more miracle and you gave it to me and now all I want to do is hurt you. Oh God. Sherlock.” John wept into Sherlock’s hair as he pulled the skinny man even tighter to his chest. He didn’t care that he was a 41 year old man crying into another man. He was so afraid that as soon as he let go he was going to do something to Sherlock that he would regret. That he would hurt Sherlock more than he had already been hurt. And this terrified John. He was always Sherlock’s protector, his ‘conductor of light’. He was never the one to hurt Sherlock but he could. So easily he could break this man into a million pieces. And he wanted to, he wanted to make Sherlock feel everything he had felt over the last 2 years. Pulling away John took a step back from Sherlock and coughed nervously “You have to leave. For a while. I can’t trust myself, and I can’t trust you. Please. Go.” He didn’t look at Sherlock as he delivered his wished, he looked at the floor and hoped Sherlock would for once leave without argument.

/////////////////////////////////

When John pulled Sherlock into a crushing hug he felt the safest he had felt in 2 years. Nothing could get to him whilst John was there because John protected Sherlock. That’s what he had always done and now he could do it again. Except this time John was protecting him from himself. From his mind and his dreams that haunted him even in the day. He needed John. Desperately.   
 As John cried into his hair, Sherlock clutched the other man’s shirt in respond desperation. He listened to the words John had to say and berated himself for doing this to his John. 

Stupid Sherlock. You don’t make anything better, you just make it worse. You hurt him. The only person who could ever stand you. You make him sick, 

But Sherlock, in John’s arms, could fight back.

I know I did this to him. But I can fix him. I CAN fix him. Can’t I? Like he can fix me. In his arms I am fixed, maybe he will be okay in mine. 

Why is he pulling away. oh god, I can’t fix him. Or he doesn’t want me. I can’t be fixed, I’m broken and I’ve broken John. He wont want me. I’m useless. Bad. He won’t even look at me any more. Bad Sherlock. Please John just look at me...

Sherlock’s internal monologue raged inside of him unbeknown to John. As John made his request Sherlock felt every bit of hope he once had crushed and destroyed. John wanted him gone. John wanted to hurt him. Sherlock felt dead. In that moment everything that made Sherlock Sherlock left his body because in his mind if John didn’t want him then Sherlock did not deserve to exist. Standing up he walked towards the door, buttoning up his shirt as he walked. In one final look back he saw John looking up at him with eyes devoid of emotion and Sherlock inner demons knocked down any defences he once had and consumed him. Sherlock was lost.

//////////////////////

When John heard Sherlock get up to go he prepared himself to hide the hurt and pain so he would not beg Sherlock to stay. He couldn’t do that, it was unfair to both of them and would hurt everyone. He had to make Sherlock go. Just for a little while, then maybe they could start again. When he looked up he saw Sherlock go from looking like a lost little boy to a walking corpse. In moments any emotion or human element in his eyes left him and he was just a shell. John couldn’t understand, it was if the very soul of Sherlock had left. And then he realised. It had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I haven't updated in months. I have been super busy at sixth form and it took priority. No excuse I know. But thank you for the continuing support and feedback, it's been great. I'm still looking for a beta for this story so if anybody want to do it let me know. Feed back, as always, is welcome :)

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments :)


End file.
